Zhukov chuckled, calming down.
“But they did not expect me to return.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“What?” Zhukov rounded on Emily. He stood over her, and at once she felt the pulsing, nauseating wave of dizziness sweep over her. She swallowed the taste of metal and forced herself to look away from his eyes. The feeling waned, but did not disappear.
“Nobody escapes the prisons of Tyvia,” Emily whispered. “Everybody knows that.”
“You speak the truth, Empress, but know that I am not lying.”
Emily blinked hot tears from her eyes and forced herself to look back up at the man, focusing again on her reflection in his goggles. It was a trick that had worked before, and it worked now.
“Then how did you get away?”
Dropping into a crouch, Zhukov knelt in front of her. She didn’t take her eyes off the reflection, but, so close, she could feel the heat radiating off him. It didn’t feel like heat absorbed from the vat—Zhukov hadn’t stood near it for a while now. No, it felt more like heat coming from within him, somewhere in the folds of the scarf and greatcoat.
“I had a vision,” Zhukov said. “It came to me, in the salt mine. A vision of fire, of a great burning. Deep under the glacier, where we dug the frozen earth, I found an artifact—the knife. A relic from another time, a relic filled with power and secrets. As soon as I held it, I heard its song. It whispered its secrets to me, and there, in the dark, I opened my eyes. It showed me the light, blazing across time.”
Zhukov held his hands up, the fingers curling, moving as though he still held the knife, twisting and turning it—the knife now part of the molten mass in the vat.
“The blade told me how to carve bones—tokens of its power. It moved my hands, moved my mind, allowing me to craft charms that unlocked the power of the Void. At first, it was too much, this power. I was lost in it, swimming in it. I even tried to carve myself, cutting my own flesh, but when I awoke all I had carved was a symbol on the back of my hand—a crude image of the Mark of the Outsider, an echo of the knife’s song, the song I heard in the cold darkness of Utyrka, of the boy whose life the blades had taken a millennium ago.
“After that, I turned my blades on others, carving charms from their bones. It was with these charms I made my escape. They unlocked a power that was already within me, a reflection of my own will. With that power, every mirror, every reflection became a corridor through which I could travel.”
“And that allowed you to escape?” she said.
“The camp at Utyrka was surrounded by the famous blue glacial field, right at the center of Tyvia. The ice held many reflections.” Zhukov shrugged. Emily could almost imagine him frowning underneath the scarf.
If only she could see his face. See what he was now. Because one thing she was sure of, the monster hiding inside the winter coat, the hat, the scarf, the goggles, it wasn’t the handsome, bold hero of Tyvia who she had seen in the mirror.
“Show me your face,” Emily said.
Zhukov laughed, and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t think you really want that.” He walked away, holding his hands up, rotating them in front of him. “Transversing through the ice had certain… effects.” He turned, and raised a hand. Emily thought he was going to relent, to unwrap the scarf at least, but then he dropped it again, and instead used it to point at Emily.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“What?”
He pointed to the mirror. “There. Tell me what you saw.”
“Ah… I saw Tyvia. Your life’s work.”
“No, before that! What was the first thing you saw?”
Emily frowned. Hadn’t he seen it? The ruined, burning city. Empress Jessamine, alive but older, alone on a broken throne.
The rats. The swarming, shrieking rats.
Keep him talking. Keep him talking.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Zhukov cried out in annoyance—the first time Emily had seen him lose control of his temper—and walked up to her. As he looked down, she felt the red eyes bore into her and the factory went fuzzy at the edges as a wave of disorientation hit her.
And then it was gone.
“Don’t trifle with me, child,” Zhukov said. “I carry charms which grant many different powers, and can cause you much more harm than merely casting an aura of disorientation.” He pointed to the mirror again. “The mirror shows the past, the present, and the future—possible futures as the deck of the world is reshuffled, the hand replayed.
“So tell me, what did you see?”
Emily frowned, her forehead creasing in concentration as she put the final pieces together.
The vision of the city—of her mother, alive but condemned to a reign of torment—was the future. A future that might have been.
Like the visions of Emily on the throne, laughing as Corvo slaughtered the aristocracy of the city for her pleasure.
Possible futures—futures that would have existed only if Zhukov’s plan had succeeded, fifteen years ago. If he had taken control of Tyvia, replacing one iron fist with another.
A future that would have existed if Emily’s mother had not been murdered.
“I…” Emily faltered. What did Zhukov want? What is this all for?
“Tell me, Emily!” Zhukov roared. “Do I succeed?”
Emily screwed her eyes tight shut.
“I don’t understand!”
“The mirror!” Zhukov said. He reached down and yanked her to her feet. With one hand he grabbed her cheeks, forcing her face around to the mirror, and with the other he pointed. “The past, the present, and the future are here, in this very room. All I need to do is find the right moment and step through.” He released Emily, and she fell back to the floor. “Tell me the right moment, and I can save your mother! I can save her and history can unfold as it was intended!”
Emily blanched. Of course. He could travel through mirrors—through reflections. He had said that, for him, they were a corridor. And this mirror, this impossible, magical mirror, was…
A door.
A door into the past. To a day, fifteen years ago, when Corvo came home bringing bad news. The day Emily’s world had ended.
The day her mother was murdered.
And—
He could stop it happening. Zhukov could do it. Step into the mirror. Travel back. Help Corvo fight Daud. Prevent the assassination.
Save her mother.
And—
And condemn the world to a future of death and of darkness, a future where Dunwall fell, where her mother ruled over a black empire, her daughter a raving maniac aided by her homicidal father.
Emily shook her head.
“No.”
Zhukov took a step back, as if he’d been slapped.
“What?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Listen to me, Empress,” he whispered. “I am offering you the world. I am offering you a chance to correct what is wrong. To rebalance the world. I can save your mother.”
Emily nodded. “I know.”
“Then what…?”
Emily smiled sadly. “If you go back and save my mother, you will save yourself. You will take control of Tyvia. You will have the power you want.”
“And your mother will be alive, here, now.”
Emily shook her head. “In a world that is crumbling,” she said. “Ruler of an empire of disease and fire. You will rule Tyvia, but only for a short while. The Rat Plague will spread, killing everyone. Dunwall will just be the first city.”
“You lie.”
“You asked me what I saw.”
“You lie.”
Emily said nothing.
Zhukov spun around, back to the mirror. “No matter. It is only one of many potentials. Your presence here was a boon, but it was not essential. I can find another moment. My plan will succeed, and I will gut the High Judges like the pigs they are.”
Emily collapsed onto her haunches. She stared at t
he ground. She pulled at her bindings again, but they were tight, the leather straps digging into her wrists.
She felt helpless. Was helpless, alone.
Zhukov stepped up to the mirror. Its surface shimmered like water and changed as he searched for the right moment.
Emily looked up.
She saw something move out of the corner of her eye.
She heard a sound from the metal stairs. Zhukov, distracted, turned his red eyes to look.
And then Emily felt a breath in her ear.
“I’m here,” a voice whispered.
28
SOMEWHERE NEAR GREAVES AUXILIARY WHALE SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5, SLAUGHTERHOUSE ROW, DUNWALL
15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851 (…a little earlier)
“All conflict is deception and lies, for to defeat the enemy, he must be fooled—fooled into thinking you are far when you are near, that you are sleeping when you are awake, that you are still when we are moving. And the greatest ally of deception is darkness, for it is only in the darkness that we can truly see the path ahead.”
— A BETTER WAY TO DIE
Surviving fragment of an assassin’s treatise,
author unknown
It had taken longer to reach the old slaughterhouse than Corvo had liked, but the Boyle Mansion was a substantial distance away, and he was on foot. En route he blinked from rooftop to ledge to windowsill to rooftop, but he’d already guzzled one of his own vials of Addermire Solution and, not knowing what he was going to face at the factory, he wanted to save the last two.
Because he was going to need all his strength, all his power. Whatever Zhukov was doing, whatever his plan was, it faded from Corvo’s mind as he rounded a corner and came to the riverfront and saw the factory looming on the opposite shore. There was just one thing in his mind now. One task at hand.
Rescuing Emily.
But as he got closer, crossed the river by blinking from the north-side wharves to the south—via the hulk of an old freighter anchored in the middle, he saw that Zhukov wasn’t taking any chances. The Whalers must have been down to just a handful of men, but he’d placed at least three outside the factory, guarding the approaches. For all Corvo knew, there would be more on the other side of the building, and who knew how many inside.
He would need to move with cunning, with stealth.
Corvo clung to the rusting ironwork underneath the factory jetty as a pair of booted feet trod the old wooden boards over his head. He watched the Whaler pass, oblivious to his presence, then he swung himself up onto the wharf and jogged, half-crouched, toward the Whaler’s exposed back.
The man never knew he was there. Corvo wrapped an arm around his neck and maintained the pressure until the man stopped struggling. Then he slid him onto his shoulder, ducking back down to the riverbank, and dumped the body out of sight.
One down. Two to go.
The factory had huge, hangar-like doors on the riverside, where whaling ships could dock, their frames hanging their precious cargo being slid directly into the building. There were two Whalers here, patrolling by the door, looking out into the night, toward the river.
Corvo ducked behind the jetty framework. There was no way in there. He would have to take the fire escape, up on the side of the factory.
He glanced up to the railing. It would be easiest to blink, and there would be time enough for the Mark of the Outsider to regenerate his power, pulling on the dark, electric force of the Void, before he got inside. That would save him one of the vials of Addermire Solution.
Judging his landing spot, Corvo reached out—then ducked back down, the Mark burning on the back of his hand in protest.
There was another Whaler, on the fire escape.
Corvo counted time, the precious seconds evaporating forever as the Whaler just stood there, enjoying the view. Emily was inside the factory, and Zhukov, and Galia, and time was running out.
He had to get in.
The Whaler moved. Corvo got ready… then cursed silently as the man, rather than walk away, just leaned down on the railing and got comfortable.
There was nothing for it, and no time for anything else. Flicking his folding sword out from its hilt, Corvo picked his destination, and pulled himself across the impossible gap. He materialized on the edge of the fire escape platform, on the outer side of the rail.
The Whaler started, jerking back at his sudden appearance, but before he could sound an alarm Corvo plunged his blade into his target’s neck. The man gurgled, hands scrabbling for the weapon, his head thrown back as a torrent of blood spurted from the arterial wound. Corvo gritted his teeth and twisted the blade, and the Whaler’s head dropped forward, the life leaving his body.
Refolding his weapon, Corvo vaulted the rail and dragged the body into the shadows, where it couldn’t be seen from the ground. Glancing down, he saw that he was in the perfect position to take out the two Whalers at the main doors. He could do it from this angle. They would be dead before they even knew he was there.
Despite his profession, he regretted the loss of life, wishing there was time to take them out without killing them. But with the Empress’s life in peril, the Royal Protector had to do what he was charged to do.
Corvo padded along the platform that skirted high on the factory wall, picked his spot, and blinked down to the ground. Arriving in front of the hangar doors but behind the two guards, he snuck up behind the first, killing him swiftly, his blade severing the man’s neck nearly to the bone. Dropping the body, he spun on his heel, even as the other Whaler was still turning at the sound, and jammed his blade into the front of the Whaler’s mask, piercing the leather and rubber like they were butter. The man shuddered, his arms stretched out as if he’d touched the live terminals of a whale oil tank, and then he was still.
Pulling out the sword, Corvo headed for the small rusting portal set into the left side of the giant hangar doors. Checking through a split in the old metal, he saw that the coast was clear.
Corvo opened the door, and stepped into the slaughterhouse.
* * *
He saw Emily. He saw Zhukov. Of Galia there was no sign. There was something very large and rectangular hanging from a framework over the vat of hot liquid, but there was no time for that now.
His first priority was getting to Emily.
The factory was unlit, and while the main oil vat shone brightly, providing ample illumination, the light blazed from a single, central point, casting very long shadows, throwing the periphery of the factory floor into a deep, inky darkness. And, thanks to the plethora of factory machinery, pallets, drums, and tanks that were scattered around the place, there was a lot of cover available too.
Corvo ducked and ran to the edge of a rusting drum that sat on a wheeled cradle, like a rail car. He peered around, and saw a Whaler ahead of him, his mask turned to the light.
Corvo blinked forward, then choked the Whaler out, dragging the body to cover behind the wheeled drum.
One down.
He checked again. Two more Whalers, a pair standing over by the stairs leading up to the factory offices. This was more difficult. There was no cover around them—if he blinked behind the pair, he would be in the light, and easily seen by Zhukov.
Those two he needed to save for later.
Corvo retraced his steps, and moved from the wheeled drum to a stack of wooden pallets to a low wall formed by a moveable tool rack. The rack still held harpoons and hooks and blades strapped on the end of ten-foot poles. Every tool needed for slicing into the still-living flesh of a whale as it hung, helpless, in the air.
There was a Whaler near the cabinet and just enough shadow behind him for Corvo to sneak up, cut off the man’s supply of oxygen and dump the unconscious body behind the tool rack.
Two down.
Corvo glanced up. There were no Whalers that he could see up on the galleries or the ironwork platforms, unless they were skulking in the shadows, but there didn’t seem to be any reason why they would be. Just to be sure, he picked a s
pot on the gallery opposite his hiding place, blinked, then rolled into the shadows high in the factory.
His limbs grew heavy as he expended his energy, but there was no time to wait for himself to recover naturally. He reached into his tunic and drank the second vial of restorative. That left only one.
Down below, Zhukov was saying something, talking to Emily, but Corvo couldn’t make out the words over the steady rumble of the vat. He glanced to his left, and—
There.
A Whaler by the factory office platform. Corvo slunk along the gallery as far as he could, blinked up to the platform above the Whaler, then dropped down on top of the man, felling him without a sound.
This gave him a good view of the factory. He looked around. Still no sign of Galia. That was problematic, but Corvo put that thought to one side. There were no other Whalers that he could see, save for the two directly ahead of him, one flight down at the bottom of the stairs.
More luck. The two sentries were facing Zhukov, who was standing by the vat. Emily was on the other side of the factory floor, kneeling in front of the disused vat. As Corvo watched, Zhukov walked over to her. In a few seconds, his back was to the Whalers, who watched their master from behind their leather and rubber masks.
Corvo blinked.
He smashed the Whalers’ heads together, then grabbed them under the arms and pulled backward, letting them drop down onto the bottom of the staircase. The attack had been awkward, and far from ideal. Not silent, either—but as it happened, the noise had been a useful distraction.
Zhukov turned his head in his direction, but in an instant, Corvo blinked, reappearing behind Emily, severing her bonds without a moment’s delay.
“I’m here,” he whispered in her ear.
Zhukov wheeled back around as Emily and Corvo stood together. Corvo slipped a knife from his belt and handed it to Emily, his own folding sword raised and ready. Emily lowered her head, her eyes narrowed. One side of her mouth twitched up as she hefted her new blade.
Then Empress and Royal Protector, daughter and father, charged the enemy.
Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 26